


waiting for a train

by feeltripping



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, BDSM, Domme Clarke, F/F, Slow Burn, Sub Lexa, sort of slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 22:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18270269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeltripping/pseuds/feeltripping
Summary: “It’s the Woods Twins,” Raven says bluntly, and Clarke chokes on her smile.“What?”“Don’t start with me,” Raven retorts. “You know the only way to pull this off is with the best. It’s why you came to me. And they’re the best.”





	waiting for a train

**Author's Note:**

> Ange helped me read over this, but didn't get a chance to read the edits. So I'm sure there's typos etc. No porn in this one, but it's upcoming. Tags will be updated when the porn part gets posted.

Clarke meets Raven at a cafe. They have coffee, talk about Raven’s cat (three-legged, viciously indifferent) and the latest addition to Clarke’s private art collection (mostly stolen, always hanging crooked). Then they nod to the bartender, slip him fifty bucks, and follow him through the locked door and down the stairs. 

“You know I hate these,” Raven mutters. Her knuckles are white around the railing of the stairs, her leg stiff as she limps her way down them.

They pass the clients, slumped in chairs and over sofas, the IV lines dangling, the PASIVs humming. “There should be someone monitoring them,” Clarke agrees, “or… any monitors of any kind.”

“That’s not why I hate them.”

Clarke waits by the bottom of the stairs, quietly not offering help. She looks again at the bodies, empty dreamers with their minds somewhere else. She never understood what hollow meant until she saw someone go under a PASIV. “I know.”

“The back room,” Raven says, and points. Clarke leads the way. 

They wait until the door is shut behind them. “Yeah,” Raven says, just as soon as Clarke flips the lock. “I’m not doing it.”

Clarke holds out a hand. “Okay, wait--”

“It’s nuts, Clarke. You know I like you, professionally and, more rarely, personally, but--”

“Just hear me out?” Clarke goes to the cabinet against the wall, fishing out a few tumblers and a bottle of scotch. “There’s an incentive.”

“You have them stock that just for me?”

“Fifty dollar whiskey,” Clarke says, pouring two generous glasses. “Aged in… some kind of fancy wooden thing, I’m sure.” She squints at the label. “Oh. Scotch actually, in uh… oak?”

Raven drains her class and sets it down with a heavy thunk. “Stop trying to read and give it to me.”

“I can read,” Clarke protests mildly. She hands the scotch over and Raven kicks her legs up onto the table, crossing her ankles and drinking directly from the bottle. 

“I’m here, I’m hearing, I’m already pretty sure what my answer’s gonna be.”

Clarke sits across from her. “I know you’ve got reservations.”

Raven shakes her head. “I’ve got ultimatums. No jobs on family. Ever. It’s not a moral thing, either; no one stays professional when it’s that personal, and I don’t work with unprofessionals.”

“I can stay professional,” Clarke tries.

Raven snorts. “Clarke, please. Don’t insult me. If you’re going to do this--and you shouldn’t, I can’t emphasize that enough--find an architect who hasn’t known you as long as I have.”

“I have a counter argument.”

Raven raises up the bottle in a mock toast, acknowledging. “I have heard, I am appreciative, I will not be swayed.”

“That’s not my counter argument.” Clarke takes out her wallet, and then a crease-worn photograph, smaller than the palm of her hand, folded in half to fit into her billfold. “This is my counter argument.” She slides it across the tabletop.

“Oh,” Raven says. She sets her glass down, swallows. “That’s low, Griffin.”

Clarke’s finger hovers above the picture, her father’s faded beaming face, a gap toothed Raven tucked into his side next to a roundfaced Clarke, babyfat clinging to both of them, pigtails slightly askew. “You loved him.” 

Raven touches the edge of the photo, near where Abby is smiling out. “I loved her too.” She sighs. “Fine. But just us, then.”

“Not a chance.”

Raven sighs again. “Fine. But I’m not cutting you a deal because of history. You pay my full price. And I’m picking the rest of the team, Clarke, I’m dead serious. I call the shots and if it gets crazy, we’re pulling the plug.”

“Sure,” Clarke says, nodding quickly. “Yeah, no, of course, yup--”

“Stop it,” Raven says, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She caps the whiskey and tucks it into her jacket. “I’m taking this as a down payment. I’ll go out first, you follow. Wait for my text.” 

++

Clarke runs her fingers over her notebook. Leatherbound, embossed with a delicate symbol, a silk ribbon to mark her place. Flips lazily through her plans and sketches, to do lists and contingencies. Traces where her pen bit into the sleek paper and left scars on the pages behind it.

And that picture on the desktop. Her father’s smile, the light in his eyes.

“Two levels,” she murmurs; a soft echo. “A good job is a simple job.”

++

Raven finds them a warehouse. Installs security and has coffee waiting. Clarke plucks a paper carryout cup off the front table and takes a sip. And promptly chokes. “Jesus--”

Raven snatches it out of her hand. “That one’s mine.”

“It’s seven in the morning,” Clarke responds incredulously. 

Raven flips her the bird. “Do you want to hear about the team or not?”

“I don’t know why you couldn’t tell me earlier,” Clarke complains, wandering towards the head of the small conference table and flopping dramatically into a chair. “We have text. We have skype. We had lunch three times and happy hour twice.”

“It’s more fun this way.” Raven takes the chair to Clarke’s left. “I’m thinking about taking pictures for posterity.”

“You’ve played yourself,” Clarke scoffs. “You hate mornings far more than I do.” She turns to smirk.

“It’s the Woods Twins,” Raven says bluntly, and Clarke chokes on her smile.

“ _What_?”

“Don’t start with me,” Raven retorts. “You know the only way to pull this off is with the best. It’s why you came to me. And they’re the best.”

“Absolutely not,” Clarke hisses. “You get back on your phone and call them right now. Cancel right now, I’m fucking deadass serious--”

The door to the warehouse creaks open. Clarke bites off her sentence, trying to smooth her expression while still shooting daggers at Raven through her eyes. She hides the unhappy twist of her mouth with a sip of coffee. By the time she’s taken a few swallows, the new members of their team have arrived at the table.

“Hey,” Raven greets. “You’re late.”

Anya doesn’t look up from her phone. “We’re not.”

“Two minutes early,” Lexa confirms.

The Woods Twins, Clarke thinks with a sigh. One in a suit and the other in a black leather jacket, both with guns in the smalls of their backs and a shared short list of people who’ve made the mistake of underestimating them and lived to tell about it. Clarke forces what she hopes is a professional smile and stands, offering her hand. “It’s good to see you’re unscarred from Avarua.”

Lexa’s eyes cut to her, searching her face for signs of being mocked. Clarke lifts a hand in appeasement. “No bullshit. It was a quick exit for everybody.”

“We’re fine,” Lexa allows, after a long drawn out pause. “We are equally pleased you have recovered.” Raven exhales very slightly in relief.

Anya sits first, feet flat on the ground and ramrod steel in her spine. She produces a folded sheaf of papers from her inner jacket pocket. “Standard contract,” she says, sliding it across the table. “Hourly rate. Needs a range of dates and an initial by the hazard bonus clause.”

Raven raises an eyebrow. “No friends discount?”

Anya raises the opposite eyebrow. “No friends at the table.”

“Ouch.” Raven takes the contract, unfolding it and skimming it quickly. “It’s boilerplate,” she confirms, flicking Clarke a small nod before clicking a pen and starting to sign. Anya’s posture relaxes as soon as the nib touches the paper, and Lexa undoes her jacket button, pulling out a chair and starting to sit.

“Wait,” Clarke says, and everyone stops. 

“Clarke,” Raven warns, but Clarke shakes her head.

“It’s only fair.”

Lexa’s right hand curls into a fist, then loosens. Her fingers flex--two of them tap lightly at her thigh, where the line of her well-cut pants is slightly disturbed. A knife, probably. Anya has gone stock-still, which means she’s poised to do something violent and dramatic. 

“The job,” Clarke clarifies, before blades come out and furniture starts flying, “is personal for me. There’s going to be a lot of information you’re not going to be told, and you have to be okay with that.”

Anya and Lexa share a look. “An example,” Anya requests.

Clarke nods. “The second level.”

There’s a pause. Anya blinks. “What about it wouldn’t we be allowed to know?”

“Everything.”

There’s another pause, longer than the first. Then Anya stands, and she and Lexa turn as one unit, headed for the door.

Clarke scrambles to her feet. “Hey, now hold on--”

“You could have sorted this over the phone,” Lexa says to Anya, ignoring Clarke entirely. “We flew six hours for this.”

“I respected Reyes,” Anya replies with a sigh. “An error, clearly. It won’t happen again.”

“Fuck you,” Raven calls out, radiating waves of _I told you so_ to Clarke.

Clarke puts on a sudden burst of speed, getting herself between the door and the other women. “Hey!”

Anya and Lexa look at her, glint-eyed and hackles raised. 

“Think of it like this,” Clarke says, mouth moving quick and her mind even quicker. “The job is just to get me to the second level. If it collapses, or I fail, or it turns out she’s got deeper levels of militarization, that’s on me. Your part of the job is logistics.”

Anya rolls a shoulder, then wrinkles her nose. Lexa sighs. “Double,” she decides.

“Five percent bonus,” Clarke counters.

Anya makes a ‘meh’ gesture with one hand. “Ten.”

Clarke looks at Raven, gets a slight nod in return. “Fine.”

They shake on it. Lexa signs first, in fountain pen, then Clarke makes the cheap rasp of a ten cent ballpoint on stationary. Their names look good atop each other.

++

Lexa lingers, after the first meeting, Raven and Anya bickering mostly good naturedly on their way to the parking lot. “You understand,” she says, unrolling her sleeves from where she’d briskly pinned them up around her forearms during the briefing, “that my entire job is predicated on understanding every finite detail of the plan. That’s what people hire me to do.”

“No,” Clarke says, “I am a brand new beginner to the field of work that my entire career is based on.”

Lexa’s lips twist up for a few seconds. “One might ask why you hired us at all.”

“Perhaps one might ask outright.”

Clarke reaches for her coffee cup on the table and Lexa catches her by the wrist. Their gazes meet, they lock. “Why did you hire me, Clarke?”

Clarke drops her coffee deliberately. The lid pops off on impact against the ground; Lexa flinches backwards as the liquid splashes, releasing Clarke’s wrist. Clarke walks past her with a toss of her hair. “Your sunny disposition,” she says over her shoulder, and doesn’t look back all the way to her car.

++

Lexa knocks on her door exactly twelve hours after Clarke falls asleep. “That’s creepy,” Clarke says, after she’s tucked her gun back in the potted plant by the front door and let Lexa into the kitchen of the house she’s renting. 

“Our timeline was clearly outlined in the contract,” Lexa says. She looks Clarke up and down, taking in her bright pink shorts and oversized man’s dress shirt. “Am I interrupting?”

Clarke snorts, digging through the cabinets to get the coffee started. “Just Raven’s snoring. Contract or no contract, she won’t be up and running for another three hours, and that’s not counting the breakfast we’ll need to get in her to get her brain fully engaged.” 

“Hm,” Lexa says, but she rinses the coffeepot and refills the water while Clarke readies the filter and the grounds. 

They lean against the counter and listen to it drip. Clarke yawns; Lexa stares idly into the middle distance, eyes focusing every so often to listen to an ambient noise: the birds outside, the house settling into its foundations. It’s a good rental, out of the way and easily defendable entrances.

“Is there a reason,” Clarke says, while she frowns into the empty refrigerator. “Why you’re here? Without Anya, two hours before we’re supposed to meet at the office?”

“The personal nature of the job concerns me.”

Clarke shuts the fridge with a sigh. “Backing out already? I thought you’d have more balls.”

Lexa’s lip curls up at the corner, half-friendly half-warning. “We have no intention of rescinding our agreement. But we have a very good reputation, and I don’t want a job ruining what we’ve built. It’s bad for business.”

“It’s messy.” Clarke finds a box of Lucky Charms in a cabinet and pops it open, sticking a hand in and fishing around for the marshmallows. “And personal.”

Lexa seems slightly transfixed by the sticky dehydrated sugar Clarke is shoveling into her mouth by the fistful. She shakes herself a little. “Anya is going to stay awake, keep an eye on us. I’ll hold the first level. You’ll need to go under with me to be familiar with it. We’ll also handle logistics of securing and returning the mark.”

“Raven is building out the second level.”

Lexa frowns. “Not you?”

“No,” Clarke replies shortly. She offers Lexa a handful of cereal. “Breakfast?”

“Pass,” Lexa says dryly. “I need the name of the mark, to start reconnaissance and background.”

Clarke chews, swallows. Takes a deep breath. “Abigail Griffin.”

++

Clarke remembers: her father loved old movies. Black and white sci-fi, cheesy special effects and wooden acting. Being allowed to stay up after her mother goes to bed, all snuggled up to him on the sofa with microwave popcorn butter on her fingers and the packet of skittles in her lap and waking up two hours later when he carries her to bed. The feel of his lips pressing once to her hair and her pastel pink bedspread tucked around her body, the click of the hall light being left on for her. 

Pancakes on Saturday mornings and the smell of his vinyl records, dust and the cardboard of the sleeves. Classic rock and old jazz and getting to pick the cassette tape to listen to in the car. Teaching her to swim in hotel pools on vacation, teaching her to ride a bike in the front yard. Teaching her how to dial nine one one and how to go for the eyes or the balls.

Sitting in freshman year biology when the classroom phone rings in the middle of health science. Being sent to the front office while the video on female development droned on. The sound of her footsteps in the empty hallways echoing off the walls of lockers. How the administrative assistant had her hand over her mouth when she told Clarke to go into the principal’s office. How her mother’s eyes were red and her hand trembled when she touched Clarke’s shoulder and told her.

Clarke remembers: a funeral on a sunny day, cloudless and bright. The blue of the sky and the green of the grass and the grey grey slate of the headstone.

++

Clarke sits at the conference table next to Raven, Anya across from her. Lexa switches on the projector and passes out dossiers while it warms up. Clarke opens the jacket and looks down at the face of her mother.

“Abigail Griffin,” Lexa says, only a slight awkward pause afterwards to mark the elephant in the room. “Chief of Surgery at Grace Memorial. No military background, no government connections. Credit card receipts show a preference for take out and Pier One.”

“And Merlot,” Raven interjects. “Long walks on the beach. In my imagination, a penchant for dark leather and--”

Clarke kicks her under the table. “Don’t make it weird.”

Lexa waits for them to finish before proceeding. “My preliminary concern is her work schedule. It’s long, erratic, and she’s often at the hospital even when not technically on a shift or even on call.”

“The sixteenth,” Clarke says. “Of next month. She always takes it off.”

“I… see.” Lexa and Anya exchange a look. Under the table, Raven nudges Clarke’s ankle with her foot. “Clarke,” Lexa says, calling her attention back. “Can we have a word in private?”

They duck outside, into the back alley next to the dumpsters. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job,” Clarke starts, but Lexa waves it off.

“Any information or feedback is always welcome. In fact, it’s appreciated. That’s not why I asked you out here.” Lexa frowns, looking down; then her face smoothes. “I’m aware of the circumstances surrounding the sixteenth. And I wanted to propose something one-on-one.” She offers Clarke a single sheet of paper, typed. 

Clarke reads the extraction plan. Her mouth turns down before she’s halfway down the page. “Are you fucking--”

“Clarke,” Lexa starts, but Clarke doesn’t let her continue.

“No.” She crumples it with a single clench of her fist, then smashes it against Lexa’s chest. “I was _very_ specific in your contract about not wanting this. Think of something else.” She starts to step around Lexa and Lexa shifts, blocking her. Clarke pauses. She takes a deep breath. She gracefully turns the other cheek and tries to walk around Lexa in the other direction.

Lexa side steps, blocking her way. “Clarke.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, through a grit teeth smile. “I’m respectfully asking you to end this interaction.”

Lexa looks Clarke up and down. Her throat bobs as she swallows; her lips purse. “No,” she says, after a long moment. There’s a shadow across her face, her eyes barely glinting out.

Clarke’s back teeth grind together. “No?”

“No,” Lexa repeats, her tone oddly mild.

“Lexa,” Clarke says, and her gaze fixes on Lexa’s throat, the pale column of it, the flutter of her heartbeat. Her tone is low and furious and her vision is starting to shake at the edges. “Get out of my way.”

Lexa tilts her head. “Or what, Clarke?”

Clarke resents the way her name sounds on Lexa’s tongue. “Or I’ll make you.”

Lexa tenses. It’s slight, and hidden by the layers of her clothing, but Clarke catches it--the tightening in her forearms, the way her weight shifts onto the balls of her feet. “Will you,” she says, and her voice isn’t mild anymore. “Is that,” she continues, taking a step forward, “what you think will happen?”

Clarke holds her ground, her heartbeat galloping. She lunges, hoping the surprise will give her the edge, thinking--thinking she’ll shove Lexa up against the wall and tell her to cut it out, stop needling at Clarke’s edges, stop pushing at what Clarke is willing to share. What she’s not thinking is that Lexa eases with the sudden movement, allowing Clarke to slam her against the brick.

Clarke lurches, off balance, falling into Lexa’s body. Their chests bump together; Clarke’s temple glances painfully off the sharp jut of Lexa’s collarbone. “Fuck!” She starts to step backwards.

And she’s stopped by a sudden, sharp lance of pressure tinged with pain: Lexa’s hand wound into her hair in a instant, pulling her head back and knocking her off balance again. Clarke wobbles, hands releasing their grasp on Lexa to windmill for balance, and Lexa turns her--it’s Clarke’s turn to be pressed up against the dirty wall, chest first, the edges of the bricks digging into her belly and the crumbling grout against her fingertips as she scrabbles for a grip. 

“You have,” Lexa says, mouth so close to Clarke’s ear Clarke can feel the rasp of soft dry lips, can smell the coffee on Lexa’s breath. “Undeniable talent. I wouldn’t work with you twice otherwise--”

Clarke snarls, thrashes. Lexa’s foot drops on the back of her calves and it turns to a yelp as her knees buckle, held up only Lexa’s arm looped around Clarke’s waist and her hand in Clarke’s hair, Lexa’s hips flush against her ass. 

“But I am the best. You asked me on this job; and this--” her grip loosens, a hand coming into Clarke’s field of view. The crumpled one sheet extraction plan between two of Lexa’s slender fingers. “-- _this_ is what you hired me to do. So stop acting like a daughter pulling a job on her mother and start acting like--”

Clarke snaps her head back, scraping her chin on the brick but connecting with something softer and more painful, if the way Lexa curses and withdraws is any indication. She spins, planting both palms on Lexa’s chest and shoving hard. “Fuck you,” she snaps. “You work for _me_ , Lexa.” She steps forward, and Lexa gives, stepping back and back and back until she bumps against the edge of the dumpster. “You do what I tell you.”

Lexa’s eyes flutter shut--just for an instant--her shoulders slump, her weight rocking onto flat feet--

Clarke shivers, something dropping hard and low in her gut, her blood suddenly singing. She wants to croon something that cuts and feel Lexa’s blood against her tongue; she wants to press her fingers all along Lexa’s skin until she finds the places that hurt.

The door opens. Raven pokes her head out. “Heeeyyyy,” she says, eyes flickering and going wide as she takes in the scene. “So, we couldn’t help but--” she yelps in surprise, Anya appearing at her spot in the doorway. 

“We’re leaving,” Anya snaps, “unless there’s something else about our incredibly illegal activities that the two of you would like to shout loud enough for people to hear through two sets of walls and insulation?”

Lexa’s face has gone smooth again, her voice without inflection. “Of course.” She walks past Clarke, shoulders knocking.

Raven waits until Anya and Lexa have disappeared back into the building. “Hey quick question,” she says, “what the _actual fuck_ , Clarke? You promised me you’d---Clarke? Hello? Remember the blood oath you swore? The one about keeping your shit together?” 

Clarke can feel her pulse in the roof of her mouth. She can feel--she can feel a very slight something in her front jeans pocket that wasn’t there before.

Raven comes closer. “Or that I’m standing here, talking to you? Hello? Clarke!”

Clarke withdraws the paper, crumpled and torn and dirty and what looks like a partial bootprint, but there, folded up and tucked into her pocket and all without her being the wiser. “I got it,” she says, when Raven starts snapping her fingers around Clarke’s peripheral vision and talking about stroke symptoms. “I’ll handle it.”

++

Clarke gives herself two hours to cool down. A sandwich and a nap and a cup of coffee before she tracks down the hotel Anya and Lexa are staying in. Swanky enough there’s a doorman and two security guards at the entrance, but not swanky enough they stop and ask to see a roomkey before they let her in. 

She checks Raven’s text in the elevator, confirming the room number, then stuffs it in her back pocket as the doors ding and slide open. 

She raps four times, then three more. “Lexa,” she calls, as loud as she dares. “C’mon. We need to talk about--”

The door opens.

Anya raises an eyebrow. “About?” She’s in boxers and a tanktop, hair tousled. She’s holding a gun behind her leg.

“Uh,” Clarke says, blinking rapidly. “A-about?”

“You need to talk about…” Anya repeats back. “I’m curious how you were planning to end that sentence.”

“I’m… not sure,” Clarke admits. “I’d like to talk to Lexa.”

Anya shrugs. “Too bad.” She starts to shut the door.

Clarke sticks her foot in before Anya can close it all the way. “I need to talk to her.”

Anya leans a noticeable amount of weight into the door. “I don’t care.”

“Anya,” Clarke says, leaning a shoulder and both hands into the door. “I’m not fucking around--”

Anya steps back suddenly. Without the counterweight, Clarke goes sprawling forward, barely catching herself and managing to fall to one knee instead of flat on her face. “Oops,” Anya says, with an impressive amount of insincerity. 

“Jesus,” Clarke snaps, scrambling to her feet and dusting off the back of her pants. She uses the small table nearby as a brace, easily palming Anya’s phone up her sleeve as she stands. “Is that move genetic?”

“Go away,” Anya suggests. 

Clarke flicks a look around the room as she leaves with a toss of her hair--empty, as far as she can tell. “Fine. Whatever.” 

 

She waits until she’s on the elevator again, headed to the lobby, before she calls Raven. “I need you to unlock a phone and track one of the contacts.”

++

Lexa’s phone is, to the best of Raven’s knowledge, lying facedown somewhere in a house 2.3 miles outside the city limits. “How do you know it’s facedown?” Clarke asks, and then shakes her head. “Nevermind.”

 

It’s a quiet street, Clarke discovers, when she pulls over and parks the rental car by a low row of hedges. Big yards, high fences. 

Clarke’s shoes tap on the sidewalk, up the front steps. She raps at the doorframe. “Lexa!” Then she thumps her closed fist against the metal of the screen, making it rattle and clang, until it opens.

“What the fuck,” snaps someone who is decidedly _not_ Lexa. She is, however, blonde, tousled, and wearing a shirt that is far too small for her, inside out and backwards.

“Uh,” Clarke says, fumbling, “I’m looking for Lexa.” She remembers the phone and her tone hardens. “I know she’s here.”

“I don’t give a single fuck--” the woman starts, but a hand touches her shoulder, quelling the tirade. 

It’s Lexa, in a robe that’s too big for her frame and more frazzled that Clarke has ever seen her. “Clarke,” she says, but her voice dips in the middle before it stabilizes. “Why--is something--?” her words stutter together; she’s blinking too much and too fast. 

The blonde steps more firmly between Clarke and Lexa, breaking their gaze, backing Clarke up further onto the front porch. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow.”

“No,” Lexa says, her voice gone more stable, firmer. She starts to reach past the woman, towards Clarke. “If it’s an emergency, I’ll--”

Clarke has started to feel the tickle in the back of her head that is the echoes of her mother repeating _You’re too impulsive, Clarke_. “No,” she says. “I’m--sorry, I shouldn’t have come here after you. It can wait until tomorrow, I--” Lexa, in reaching out to help hold the door open, has caused the sleeves to fall down, exposing her lower arm. Inner elbow, the pale flash of it, and the tendons in her forearm, and her wrist. Her wrist, which is ringed angry red, and already starting to purple. “What is that?”

Lexa’s retreats. “Nothing.”

Clarke turns her gaze on the blonde. “Did _you_ do that to her?” She steps close, furious. “We’re leaving.”

The woman snarls, meeting Clarke’s gaze and not backing down. “She’s not going anywhere with you, crazy lady I’ve never seen before.”

“A moment,” Lexa’s voice cuts between them. “Between the two of us, please.” She angles her head towards the blonde and voice drops, lower. More intimate. “It’s alright.”

“I’ll be inside,” she says, after a long grudging look at Clarke. “Hollering distance.”

“Thank you,” Lexa says, and they kiss once. Deep. The other woman’s hand cupped possessively around the back of Lexa’s neck. Clarke’s lip curls. Lexa waits until she’s disappeared inside before turning to Clarke. “I’m now assuming Anya did not send you.”

“No,” Clarke admits. “I… was angry. And I thought you were avoiding me on purpose.”

“I wasn’t,” Lexa says, after a long beat. There are scratchmarks on her shoulders, fresh. A hickey low in the hollow of her throat. 

“And that’s all…” Clarke falters, mired in awkward hand gestures.

“Consensual,” Lexa replies in a clipped tone. “And private.”

“Sure,” Clarke hastens to say, “yeah. Of course. Not my business.” She coughs. “I just didn’t see you as the type--”

“Our professional relationship has ceased,” Lexa interrupts. She spins on her heel and starts to stalk away.

“Hey,” Clarke says, chasing after her. “Hold on, let me explain--” she trips over an uneven crack in the wooden planks of the front deck and pitches forward, thumping against Lexa’s back and spinning her, taking them both stumbling sideways into the porch railing. “Fuck. Sorry.” She starts to lean back, then pauses. “Uh. Your robe.”

“Yes,” Lexa says, hurriedly fixing where it had fallen off her shoulders while Clarke averts her eyes to stare stoically off into the middle distance. “I’m fully aware. You can move now.”

Clarke doesn’t move. She’s looking at the hickey on Lexa’s throat. Her bare throat. “She doesn’t collar you.”

Lexa goes still. Clarke can feel her heartbeat, they’re pressed so close. It’s racing, but her voice is ice, frozen solid and brittle and sharp edged. “And what do you know about it.”

“I know she hasn’t collared you,” Clarke murmurs. She starts to lean forward.

Cold metal presses against her belly, under her shirt. She freezes, then leans back. “You put on a robe and then grabbed a handgun?” she asks, impressed despite herself.

“I grabbed the handgun first,” Lexa says, and Clarke shivers. 

Lexa doesn’t put the gun away until Clarke has obligingly put three feet between the two of them. “Our contract was clear. This is a clear violation of that contract. We’ll take our severance pay through direct deposit.”

“I was angry,” Clarke admits, stopping Lexa’s dramatic whirl in its tracks. “Because your plan was good. And because…” she trails off.

“Because you thought you wouldn’t have to face your mother ever again after faking your death.”

“I’m still annoyed you found that out,” Clarke says, breaking eye contact. “Who snitched? Murphy?”

“I’m very good at my job,” Lexa says. “It’s why people hire me.”

“Raven hired you,” Clarke admits. “I was against it.”

Lexa frowns, professionally insulted. “Because of the Mogwin job?”

“No, it’s--”

“Perdin,” Lexa guesses. “Or Ascovette, that one was all on the forger--”

“Personal reasons,” Clarke says, and Lexa goes still. Clarke shrugs. “Seems like I should have to say some embarrassing shit too. Make it fair.”

“‘Personal reasons’ isn’t very embarrassing.”

“I’m attracted to you.” Clarke lets her words come out blunt and bulky. “I’m--aware of the lifestyle. And I’m jealous you sought it out from someone who isn’t me.” She coughs, breaking eye contact. “Embarrassing enough for you?”

“I can give you some names,” Lexa says finally, after a long pause. “They won’t ask questions, run the job any way you want, as long as the pay’s fair.”

“I know I screwed up,” Clarke says, hands up appeasingly. “But we’ve taken steps. Raven’s calling the shots. You’re building the level and handling logistics. It’s my end goal, that’s all. I know I’m too close. It’s why I need a team. Why I need you.”

“And why you followed a member of ‘your team’ after an argument? And after assaulting them in an alleyway for offering a course of action?”

“Yup.” Clarke agrees, quickly. “Again… my bad.”

“My bad,” Lexa repeats, slowly. Incredulously.

“You assaulted me first,” Clarke mutters. Then she winces. “Is there any way I can convince you to unquit?” She tries for a smile. “It’s not official until you tell Anya?” When she shifts her weight she can feel Anya’s phone in her back pocket. She winces again. “Anya could be hard to reach right now.” 

Lexa cuts her a look, confused.

“At this hour. It’s late.” Clarke waves a hand. “Let’s not talk about Anya. Please, Lexa. I want you with me on this job. Is there anything I can do to convince you to come back onboard?”

“Yes,” Lexa answers swiftly, and Clarke perks up, hopeful. “I left it in your pocket.”

Clarke glowers. “That’s low.”

Lexa shrugs. “Given the circumstances, I’m not inclined to forego the severance fee if we part ways.”

“But if I agree on this plan, then…”

“I’d be willing to continue working with you. Given the circumstances.”

“The circumstances being...”

“Your shocking disrespect for my privacy and incredibly inappropriate intrusion upon my personal life.”

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs, pulling out the plan from her pocket and uncrumpling it with resignation. “Those were the ones I figured.”

++

Anya’s sitting on Clarke’s bed when she gets back to the hotel room. Raven, at the desk, cuts her a look as she comes in. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Anya snaps. 

“She’s been waiting here,” Raven clarifies. “It’s been… so fun.”

“Give me my phone,” Anya snarls, and snatches it out of the air when Clarke tosses it to her. She stalks out of the room, phone pressed to her ear. The door latches behind her. 

“Way to go,” Raven says. “Hey, do you remember when you swore that I’d be running this job and making all the big decisions?”

Clarke flops onto the bed, facefirst. “Don’t start with me.”

“Don’t start with _you_? Anya’s been on a rip for forty five minutes.”

“I handled it. It’s fine.”

“Anya was really freaked out.” The bed dips; Raven must have gotten up to sit on the edge of the mattress. “What was so secret about what Lexa was doing?”

“Nothing,” Clarke mumbles, muffled into the duvet. “Don’t worry about it.”

++

“Now that we’ve all agreed on a plan,” Raven says at the conference table. “Suddenly, spontaneously, are-you-a-pod-person agreement--”

“Yes,” Clarke says sharply, casting Raven a warning look. “We get it.”

Raven glares back. “Fine. We’ll be grouping up in the next phase, testing solutions and building out the first level. Anya?”

Anya looks up from her phone. “Yeah, I’m not doing a powerpoint. But I’ll need to perform physical exams on you both, and I want you to review your medical histories for corrections or necessary addendums.”

Raven frowns. “I want to review your formulas.”

“No.”

“Seriously?

Anya smiles; it’s terrifying. She leans back in her chair and Raven’s eyes flash. 

“Lexa,” Clarke murmurs, “a moment?”

 

Lexa closes the office door behind her. “I didn’t expect you to object to the plan before you’d even finished hearing it.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says automatically, “I’m a bitch like that.” She shakes her head. “No, sorry. That’s not what I want to say.”

Lexa turns, arching a questioning eyebrow. Her suit is three piece today, the jacket draped over a chair in the other room, the sleeves kept buttoned at her wrists despite the stifling heat of the warehouse. “Clarke?” 

Clarke realizes she’s been looking too long. “I, uh. I have lotion in my purse.”

Lexa blinks. “What?”

“For your wrists.”

Lexa’s face shuts down. Her jaw flexes so hard Clarke can practically hear it.

“Sorry,” Clarke blurts, “god, sorry, that was inappropriate.”

“If this is going to be a problem,” Lexa says, and her tone is brittle. “I can recommend several excellent teams that can take over. I won’t work under these conditions.”

“Yes,” Clarke says. “Of course, no. I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d be one to judge so harshly,” Lexa says stiffly, busying herself with neatening a stack of papers.

“Huh?”

Lexa slaps the papers down, squaring her shoulders. “I am very good at my job. In fact, I’m the best. And that hasn’t changed just because you found out that on some nights I _kneel_.”

“Hey,” Clarke says, grabbing Lexa by the elbow, “that’s not--”

Lexa turns, breaking Clarke’s grip and shoving her back against the wall. “Do not,” she breathes, eyes shadowed and muscles tensed, “touch me without permission.”

“Careful,” Clarke murmurs, her voice calm and non-threatening. She relaxes against the wall, leaving her posture open and at ease. “You keep pulling a gun on me and you’ll turn me on.”

Lexa steps back. “I overreacted.”

“And I overstepped.”

Lexa smoothes her vest, her hands steadying. “And we can both be professional.”

Clarke offers her hand and Lexa takes it, her grip steady and firm. “We should also probably make sure Anya and Raven aren’t thunderdoming in there.”

++

“There’s no way you’d take advantage of being the job’s chemist in order to stick me with big needles, is there?”

“Oh believe it,” Anya says in a tone that for her passes as cheerful. “Maybe something’s changed since your last bloodwork. Better run it all again with fresh samples. Just to be sure.”

Clarke sighs, yanking up one sleeve. “Can’t I just pee in something?”

“Gross,” Anya remarks, and then stabs Clarke in the upper arm, manipulating the syringe with one hand.

 

Lexa is waiting for her outside the makeshift doctor’s office. “Got an hour?”

Clarke checks her phone. “Got two.”

Lexa jerks her head towards the cots against the wall, the silver PASIV shining between them. “I can show you what I’ve got so far.”

Lexa puts the line in Clarke’s elbow, her nail flicking at the skin to find a vein. “You’re better at this than your sister.”

“No, she just really doesn’t like you.”

“And it’s so nice of you to shield my feelings like that,” Clarke says dryly. “Do you need me to wait?”

Lexa sits on the cot next to her, then lays back, kicking up her legs and fiddling with the tube in her arm. “A count of ten will do.”

“Sure.” Clarke waits until Lexa’s eyes close, and then start to flutter. “One mississippi,” she says to no one. “Two mississippi, three…”

 

She wakes up in a field. The long grass tickles her face, there’s honest to god wheat waving in the wind. Nothing but wildflowers and sunshine for miles and miles, except for the tower made of black stone sticking up from the earth. “Well,” Clarke says to herself, standing and dusting off the back of her pants. “That’s ominous.”

 

“And annoying,” she adds, when she gets to the tower and finds nothing but stairs. She counts as she goes; loses her count somewhere around two hundred. She arrives at the top huffing, calves cramping. The wooden door opens soundlessly into a stone room, dimly lit by small high windows; Lexa lounges in a folded chair like it’s a throne. She’s twirling a knife in one hand. “I thought you’d decided not to come all the way up.”

Clarke shrugs, trying to hide that she’s out of breath and failing. “Cardio is bullshit,” she manages, after a full minute.

Lexa snaps her fingers and another chair appears.

“Showoff,” Clarke says, but collapses into it. “Seriously, is there a reason it has be Rapunzel-tall?”

“If she bolts, she’ll have to flee down stairs. It’s harder than it seems. It’ll give me time to rework the outside.” Lexa leans forward. “I’m certified in CPR.”

Clarke makes a bottle of water appear in one hand; she extends her middle finger with the other. Lexa smiles, standing and crossing the room to the opposite curved wall. “I’ll set up the station for the second level here. When you’re ready, we should run a full rehearsal.”

“I’m ready now,” Clarke replies. “I’ll tell Raven to put it on the schedule.”

Lexa’s brows raise in surprise. “Already? We have time, build it out and make it strong.”

“What can I say? I’ve been burning the midnight oil.”

Lexa frowns at her. “Going into a job overtired and overworked doesn’t bode for success.”

“We all have our ways of blowing off steam.”

Lexa’s body language goes stiff. “Of course. It’s none of my business.”

“We all have our own ways of regulating,” Clarke says carefully. “None are necessarily inherently worse than others.”

Lexa is quiet, her back turned to Clarke. “Say what you mean.”

“There’s nothing less about who you are because of what you like in the bedroom. And what role you take there.”

Lexa sighs. “Too much to hope it could all be forgotten, I suppose.”

“We don’t have to talk about it again. I know it’s an invasion of your private life that I even know.”

Lexa closes the distance between them in a blink, leaning down over Clarke with her arms braced on the back of the chair, the seat between Clarke’s legs. “And what do you do, to regulate?”

“Not fair,” Clarke says, her voice gone low and husky. “You know how I feel.”

“‘Attracted’,” Lexa quotes back. “Attraction takes on many forms.” She’s close enough her breath puffs against Clarke’s cheek. 

“I’m your boss,” Clarke says. “So if you’re waiting for a first move or an offer, it’ll have to come from you first.”

Their eyes lock. Slowly, Lexa withdraws the hand between Clarke’s legs, her fingers barely brushing against the inside seam of Clarke’s jeans. “I remember something else you told me,” Lexa says, and Clarke struggles to keep herself in the moment.

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Lexa’s gun clicks when she cocks it, all polished chrome and engraved grip, the tip cold where it presses under Clarke’s chin. 

“Sorry, but your gun is old news.” Clarke tilts her head back, baring her neck and feeling the drag of the barrel as it slides down her throat. 

Lexa’s smile is all teeth. “Nine millimeters doesn’t do it for you anymore?”

“That was then. You’ll have to up your game to get me wet.” Her body wants to breathe hard and she lets it, watching Lexa’s eyes flick to her chest, the neckline of her shirt. Clarke laughs, low and anticipatory. 

Lexa’s pupils are dilated. “Any suggestions?”

Clarke smiles, flint-edged. “I like to start with a kiss.”

Lexa touches her lips to the tip of the barrel, soft and easy and then slow and hard; Clarke watches her skin go white from the pressure, and then pink again, the blood rushing back as she removes the gun from her skin. “For a start,” she murmurs. Her smile turns sharp, the white gleam of her teeth bared, twisted into a snarl. “If you think you can snap your fingers and bring me crawling, you’re in for an unpleasant surprise.”

She puts the barrel against Clarke’s temple, warm from her mouth. 

“Why,” Clarke asks, baring her teeth right back. “Would I ever want you to be something you’re not?”

Lexa pulls the trigger. Clarke’s blood sprays across her cheek, warm and wet and dripping. 

 

Lexa’s gone by the time Clarke takes the needle out .

++

Clarke waits. 

There’s enough to fill her time: submitting to Anya’s tests, going under with Raven to work on the second level. Pouring over the files that are her eyes only.

Definitely not commenting on how one morning during a briefing Lexa waits for Clarke to be looking at her before brushing her hair over one shoulder, and scratching idly at the hollow of her throat, moving her collar and exposing red-purple teeth indents. Clarke chokes on her own spit in the middle of a sentence and has to flail at Raven to take over; Anya looks less impressed with Clarke than she ever has before, which is saying a lot.

Later, Lexa sidles up beside her at the coffee pot. “Something distracting you?”

“Nothing you haven’t orchestrated.”

Lexa nudges her mug over and watches Clarke fill it. “Feeling tested?”

“You can plot until Anya wears a pink princess dress, but it won’t change my mind.” Clarke offers her a plastic container. “Creamer?”

“I take it black.”

“Of course you do,” Clarke mutters, dumping a heaping helping into her own cup and stirring it with the tip of her finger. 

Lexa catches her wrist, turning it up to expose her palm. She touches a finger to Clarke’s lifeline, tracing it from one side to the other, and then again with her nail, hard enough Clarke has to hide a wince, a red line appearing in her wake. A drop of coffee runs onto her skin and she withdraws only to lick it away. Slowly. “Remind me what it is I’m meant to change?”

Clarke watches Lexa’s tongue, pink and wet; she imagines the rasp of it against her own. “If you want something,” she says evenly, “all you have to do is ask for it.”

Lexa drops her hand. Her eyes are flat guarded. “Is that so.” 

She leaves and Clarke leans her weight against the counter. Takes a deep breath. “Jesus.”

++

She’s having a drink with Raven in her hotel room when there’s a quick rap at the door. Raven frowns over the rim of her glass. “Expecting company?”

Clarke keeps her weapon drawn until she checks the peephole. “Not expecting, not not-expecting.” She opens the door. “Lexa.”

“Clarke.” Lexa steps into the room, her eyes doing a sweep. “Reyes.”

“Junior Woods.” Raven stands, shrugging on her jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says to Clarke, and Clarke nods in response.

Lexa waits until the door closes behind Raven to speak again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt something.”

“You didn’t.” Clarke crosses to the minibar. “A drink?”

“Please.”

They sit around the small round table in the corner and sip at cheap hotel liquor, poured neat. Lexa’s fingers tap at the tabletop, an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “Who you have in your room is none of my business.”

“It would be, if it was you.”

Lexa’s breath catches. “Yes,” she agrees. She clears her throat. “I wanted to apologize for my actions recently. Winding you up.”

“No apologies necessary.” Clarke takes a sip to busy her hands. “I would welcome an explanation.”

Lexa sighs. She drains her class, drops it empty to the table with a heavy clink. “I was… testing you. Seeing if you would try to use what you know against me.”

Clarke nods. “Did I pass?”

Lexa smiles. She leans over the table, slow and easy and watching for Clarke to flinch away; she doesn’t. She keeps her eyes open and so does Lexa and their kiss is feather light, whiskey flavored. Clarke doesn’t blink until Lexa sits back down in her chair. 

“A kiss,” Lexa says, “to start.”

“A good memory,” Clarke rasps, her throat dry and her heart racing. “I like that in a… girl.”

Lexa arches an eyebrow. “Say what you mean, Clarke.”

“In a sub.”

Lexa’s breath hitches; she swallows. Clarke watches her throat work. “I don’t cross streams. It’s not professional.”

“Did you just make a Ghostbuster’s joke?”

Lexa raises an eyebrow at Clarke’s incredulity. “That’s what you’re taking away from this conversation?”

Clarke refocuses. “I understand,” she offers. “And I think I’ve made a good faith effort.”

Lexa nods, her fingertips drumming on the tabletop in an uncharacteristic tell of nerves. “Good,” she says, suddenly short. She stands. “Good.”

Clarke stands, feeling like she’s missed something important. An opportunity. She grits her teeth and shoves the _wants_ way far down, way under the _need_ of finishing this job and getting it right. She offers her hand instead, and Lexa hesitates for only a second before clasping it, forearm to forearm. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Clarke says, and doesn’t let go.

Their hands drop, slow and almost lingering.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lexa echoes softly. And then she’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think I'm on tumblr @ feeltripping


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